


Two Drachmae

by GloriaMundi



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Layout, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Trojan War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-21
Updated: 2004-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the war ends tomorrow ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Drachmae

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


If the war ends tomorrow, I will ride into Troy -- not victor, but guest -- and speak with him, neither spear nor sword between us. We'll take two horses from the stables and ride east, leaving the corpse-sown plain behind us. In the east ... but there's Patroclus. There's Briseis, his cousin. And he has a son, and a wife. He is a prince of Troy: he is not free.

We'll take two horses from the stables and ride east, together. I'll muster the Myrmidons: Hector shall bring the finest of the Apollonian Guard. There are cities to the east that have never been conquered. Together we will find glory. He will fight at my shoulder, I will be the armour of his back. There will be none who can stand against the two of us.

At night ... well. We are equals, he and I, matched in strength and age and rank. Perhaps we'll throw the dice each evening, or toss a coin, to decide who plays the girl.

I wouldn't mind. For him.

| 

If the war ends tomorrow, I will ride out to the beach, while the Greeks load their black ships, and speak with him before his tent. I'll bid him stay. He has a kingdom to rule, I know: but his counsellors know of governance. His cousin is dear to him, they say. He might reign in Achilles' stead, for a year or two. But Troy is no place for Achilles. It is a cage.

Perhaps we'll found a new city. There's a river-delta, east along the coast, where olive trees grow and the hunting is good. He and I will rule there, and our sons after us. Any woman would be proud to be his wife. Andromache will love him, too. How could she not? He is my brother: the same blood flows in our veins, though it's Paris who grew to manhood with me.

And sometimes, at night, when we are alone -- hunting, or riding out to learn the land -- it will come to just the two of us, tussling together like lion-cubs or little boys.

Sometimes I'll let him win.  
  
---|---  
  
I could have loved you: but I loved my cousin Patroclus, and his life's blood is on your sword. I did not see you fight. I don't know if he fought as valiantly as you deserve. His ashes are cooling now, but something within me is still on fire, and it will be quenched only when my sword is sheathed in your heart.

I don't know why I cannot weep. I loved Patroclus. I would never have permitted him to meet you in combat. He is -- he was too young to make the journey across the Styx.

Yet, brother, I weep for what now can never be: and it is not only Patroclus' future glories that died in the dust yesterday, but yours.

You must die, and I must kill you: but I never wanted your death, until I saw his.

| 

I could have loved you, but when -- as I thought -- you came at me, your sword already red, I fought you honourably, as I would fight any foe in battle. When I slew you, the sickness rose in me for what I had spoilt. When I lifted the helm from your face and saw that it was not you who lay dead at my feet, I rejoiced.

I did not know the dead man's name. He looked like you, a little: he was fair, and very young. If you and I met in combat, it would have been glorious. This was butchery.

When they told me the boy's name, I knew that you would have vengeance. We would meet one more time, this side of the Styx.

Death is the opposite of everything I wanted from you. Death parts us, for a little while.  
  
Your blind, deaf shade is scurrying down to Hades, lost on the riverbank, crying in the dark for any that will guide you to the ferryman.

Only wait a little while for me. I will be your guide.

| 

Everything is dark and quiet, and there is no pain any more. I am waiting for the wave to break against the shore.

When you weep, though, I can hear it; your tears feel like fire.  
  
The other bank of the river is crowded with men, all staring at the two of us. Some of them are men I have slain: some I do not know, though you look at them with pity. So many of them, an army: yet they have no weapons, and there is nothing warlike in their eyes.

Their eyes are dead.

I can hear oars rippling the cold, black water. Soon we'll pay the ferryman and cross to the other side. But here, while we are still quick, and the coins in our hands are warm from our funeral pyres -- while we remember who we were -- I can smile, and call you brother, and speak of what might have been.

They will remember our names, when we have drunk of Lethe: but there will be no one to remember this.

-end-

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Two Drachmae](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11762955) by [annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annapods/pseuds/annapods), [vassalady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vassalady/pseuds/vassalady)




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